


A Sense of Touch

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, M/M, Soft Bond, just a little, touch-starved Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Q has a bad day (bad week maybe; he does tend to let these things build up), but Bond is there for him





	A Sense of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for... I think it was No Pain November? Something close to that, anyway, for the [MI6 Cafe](http://mi6-cafe.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. This is more comfort than hurt, so I figured it counted
> 
> This was originally posted here as part of a collection, which I've deleted. If you left kudos or a comment for it there, please know that I've saved them all to look upon and cherish (also, thank you)

It was late. Later than usual; though Q was prone to long nights, he tended to curb them as well as he could when Bond was in London, and it was gone 10 PM when Bond heard the security systems disengage. He waited to see what kind of day it had been.

The door swung on silent hinges and clicked quietly closed again. The sound of the security system being rearmed drifted into the sitting room, followed by a gentle thump on the floor – Q’s satchel. Q’s coat rustled as it went on a peg, his shoes made muted thuds as they were left at the door, and then Q padded quietly down the hall and right into the bedroom.

Not a good day, then.

Bond waited.

Regardless of what some people thought, he was capable of great patience when necessary.

Q reappeared shortly, softer and more tired without his glasses, dressed in pajama bottoms so old they didn’t even have hems anymore and a cardigan that wasn’t faring much better. Wrapped in comforting fabric, Q moved to the kitchen, his gait light and stiff, as if he was trying very hard to exist a little less – or perhaps like he was about to float away. The kettle clicked on, and Bond decided it was time to move.

He made his steps obvious, moving more loudly than he would usually in order to give Q some warning. By the time Bond reached the kitchen, Q was still staring at the mug he’d pulled from the cabinet, but he was likely aware of Bond nonetheless.

“Bad day?” Bond inquired; he didn’t need the confirmation, but it gave Q the opportunity to talk about it if he wanted.

Q’s shoulders twitched, something like a shrug, but he remained otherwise still. “Bad week, I think.” He murmured, “Bad day, bad week.”

It seemed to be all he was inclined to say, and Bond moved in closer, stopping only when he stood just behind Q at the counter. Slowly, he raised his hands and placed them on Q’s waist—where he was fairly certain Q’s waist was, swamped as the man was in his monstrous jumper—and pressed in just slightly. Q’s fingers twitched against the countertop and the muscles in his shoulders bunched.

He wouldn’t ask – Q would never ask because he didn’t know how. He had gone so long existing on casual touches, on handshakes and on brief pats on the back and on accidental bumps on the tube and on nothing more, and he didn’t know how to ask for anything else, no matter how much he wanted to.

It hurt a little to watch him deny himself still, when Bond was so plainly offering.

However, permission had been given long ago, awkward and stuttering, and Bond moved again. His hands slid slowly forwards, one moving up Q’s chest and the other down until it reached his hip and Bond’s arms were caged loosely around Q, pressing them together back to chest. Q shivered, staring down at his mug for a moment longer before his resolve broke.

He turned in the loose circle of Bond’s arms and pressed himself fully into the man’s frame. Arms came up around Bond’s shoulders, feet mingled on the kitchen tile, thighs brushed, and Q rested his forehead in the curve of Bond’s neck. There was stillness for a moment, before Q began to fidget; he shifted his feet restlessly, attempting find the angle at which their legs would have the most contact without completely tripping them up, and he settled and resettled his arms over Bond’s shoulders, unable to pull the other man close enough.

Bond hushed him, murmuring nonsense meant to calm, and removed his hands from Q just long enough to let Q’s arms snake around his midsection and lock tightly there. Bond pulled Q closer still with firm hands at his back, moved Q until his hips were at the counter so that their legs were pressed together, and dragged one hand up the back of Q’s neck and into dark hair where his fingers curled slightly.

Q inhaled sharply, pushing his face against Bond’s chest, and they were touching everywhere from the knees up.

It would have been callous of Bond to admit that he liked these days; that he cherished the way Q needed him so viscerally, the way Q clutched at him with trembling hands, the way it seemed Q couldn’t be close enough to him even if they were skin to skin. Callous, but true, just a little. Bond had flirted and been flirted with, fucked and been fucked by more people than he cared to count, but he never felt so wanted as he did when Q held onto him like this.

A shiver ran up Q’s spine and Bond readjusted his hold, rocking them back and forth just slightly.

Were it that he could reproduce the need for closeness without the breakdown, he would.

They swayed together in the kitchen for hours or minutes for all they could tell, before Bond stilled the movement. The tremble had spread from Q’s hands and, though Bond couldn’t be sure if it was hunger or exhaustion or emotion or some other thing Q tended to deny himself, a change of venue seemed prudent.

“Do you want to lie down?”

A pause, then a nod from Q, the action made awkward by the way he hadn’t moved his head from Bond’s chest at all.

Bond gave him another moment, scratching lightly at his scalp before pulling away. Q didn’t give up his grip without making his displeasure known, but Bond promised him they hadn’t far to go. He led Q over to the couch, an over-sized and over-stuffed mess of a piece of furniture purchased with perhaps this purpose in mind, and directed Q to lie down against the back. Bond joined him shortly, pulling the heavy throw from the back of the sofa to tuck around them before pressing back in against Q.

Cradled firmly between the couch and Bond’s body, Q sighed and stilled long enough to allow Bond to arrange the throw before continuing their previous embrace. Their legs tangled and Q’s hands twisted their way back into the fabric of Bond’s shirt and Bond dropped a kiss on top of Q’s head before weaving his fingers back through dark hair.

“You can sleep if you want.” Bond offered quietly.

Q nodded, his eyes slipping closed, but his breathing remained too shallow, his pulse too high, and his muscles too tense for Bond to believe he was really sleeping. Anxiety and the fervent need for contact still gripped Q’s mind, but it was alright.

Bond told Q so, stroking his hair and waiting for the relaxation that would come over time. It was alright. Bond would be there until Q was ready to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> [Also posted on Tumblr!](http://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/168066004913/its-still-november-where-i-am-i-am-late-but)


End file.
